


Let's Play Happy Families

by WildRedRose14



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Abuse, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Holmes Brothers' Childhood, Holmes Family, domestic abuse, family life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 08:22:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/937751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildRedRose14/pseuds/WildRedRose14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever wondered how the Holmes brother's were brought up?<br/>Or what Mummy Holmes is like?</p><p>From here: http://mycroft-holmes-rp.deviantart.com/art/The-Holmes-Let-s-Play-Happy-Families-378874546</p><p>My Mycroft RP account~! ^u^</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's Play Happy Families

Trigger warning: domestic abuse and drug use

 

Mister Holmes was an eminent politician.  
He was fairly tall and broad enough to be pleasing with a strong jawline, prominent cheekbones and a large nose. Back in the day before his dark hair became too thin he had a mustache also but that was shaved off some years before he left. His eyes were a bluish green although they often appeared to lean more towards a green.  
Cobbling together what he can remember, doors being shut in his face and his father's voice telling a very young, barely out of nappies Mycroft to go back to bed and, occasionally, mummy or the resident nanny picking him up and taking him back, as well as small things mummy says and records he managed to pull once he became head of MI6 when he was older, his father was just as powerful as he had become, but perhaps with more ties....then again, when your served some time in the army as an officer and was part of a well instilled long bloodline and considered a respectable man, every other man in his various clubs would fall over themselves to help him. 

It was laughable. 

Mummy was a highly successful designer, mostly of gardens and homes but she gave up her job when she had Mycroft. Not that she did much mothering; she left that to the nanny.  
But she liked to make believe, even when she was arguing with her dear husband that he made her give up everything for the child, going between insisting she took the best care of Mycroft, and not really wanting to deal with him at all.  
She would wander in and play with her new son, or critisize something, and then leave again. On trips out she'd hold his hand and point out things and smile as any mother would but she'd soon lose interest and light up a cigarette (she was perhaps one of the few women in London to still use a cigarette holder)and trailing round with them, for awhile she would go and link arms with her husband, both not even so much as looking at each other , both looking around in a bored pretentious manner.  
Mycroft was left to keep up as best as he could.  
Some of the nicer nannies would carry him when he got tired but many were too scared of their employers.  
She was a pretty woman in her time, with a little heart face with high cheekbones and lovely blue eyes and unblemished skin. She had angelic blonde hair that she coiffed into whatever was the latest fashion but rarely had it longer than her shoulders. Mycroft only remembers her with a straight silver bob though. She complained about having it short though, even when it suited her. Complained about chopping all her lovely hair off when she had little more than the style she had to this day.  
She was a woman who liked to complain, even when she had nothing to complain about.

Father was always referred to as just that, though mother loathed it and insisted, clinging to her facade that she was a proper little housewife, that she be called "Mummy" at all times.

 

Mycroft would like to say he remembers how his parents loved each other but he learnt more from old family friends than he did from home. These friends are long dead from old age by now but they were pleasant to the eldest Holmes brother in their time. 

His mother loved his father almost obsessively.  
She could have almost any-one but she wanted him and, so it seemed, he loved her back in his own calm way. Mother was all dancing and parties and socialising and father was work and wanting a quiet family life. They fought apparently. Glitzy Hollywood-worthy spats and it would almost always end the same way with her slapping him as he dragged her from whatever party she was at and they would stop and stare at each other before kissing each other either tenderly in apology or passionately in angry love before leaving. 

But emotions were not something the Holmes family discussed.  
The parents did not show it, though there was a little affection here and there as families were meant to have, as far as they were aware. Anger was shown later in life for the parents but it was never acceptable for them. For every prominent man it was a terrible thing to lose ones temper. one must rationalize calmly to succeed. There was no point in anger, nor many emotions were acceptable. Logic, schedule, regimes.  
There was no place for weakness, or emotion wreaking havoc with logic.  
It was a weakness to be weaned out of the Holmes children.

What little Mycroft can remember when he was six or seven was mother in her tiled withdrawing room that led to the conservatory reclining on he same cushioned lounge almost everyday. She was like a twenties star, overcome with constant ennui and constantly having a charming smile that was clearly very empty...at least, Mycroft knew it was.  
At one time she gardened in the conservatory but Mycroft never saw her with her elegant pale hands dirty till later in time before he left home.  
As a child would wander in to talk politely to her, he would not attach the term 'play' to it. She would ask about school, about other children's mothers, about father.  
Mycroft rarely did anything wrong.  
He learnt from the first few punishments not to.  
Besides, he saw no reason to be naughty.  
He got away with enough at school that knew he would not be able to at home. 

Mycroft, for the most part, played with his nanny (though they did not bother with one often by this point, leaving young Holmes to wander as he willed through the house) and ignored his parents who bickered often. Not that he didn't love them.  
He loved them bitterly.  
They were attractive and intelligent and respectable as every-one said, and he wanted to make them proud and so spent hours perfecting art pieces or designing science projects and then presenting them to his parents.  
It was one of the few times father spent time with him.  
In fact, these years were his favourite memories of his parents.  
Father would go on walks, hands clasped in the small of his back (an action that the young Mycroft imitated with precision) as he pointed out plants and birds and questioned his prodigy. He was yet to turn into the monster Mycroft learned to hate. 

Mummy became pregnant again and Mycroft was excited for his future sibling.  
They asked him if he wanted a brother or sister and unlike with many simple questions parents asked their child, Mycroft knew that there was a right and wrong answer and so pondered this extensively. ".....either would make me happy. I could go fishing with my brother but having a sister would be....interesting." He knew mother wanted a little girl.  
He answered correctly and the two adults continued their squabble over the unborn babe which to Mycroft made little sense as there was nothing they could do about the sex of his future little brother or sister. 

The gurgling baby was not a little girl as Mother had hoped and the hopeful name of Sheryl-Anne became Sherlock, just as Mycroft knew his name was to be Myrtle if he was a different sex. 

Mother came home exhausted and instantly made herself a gin and tonic and it was father who held the child as Mycroft stood waiting patiently.  
"Here Mycroft, this is your brother, Sherlock."  
He knelt and Mycroft eagerly moved forwards to stare at the squirming tiny human Father cradled. Big blue eyes focused on him curiously and Mycroft instantly felt love for the being that he was informed was his new sibling.  
"Hello Sherlock."  
"Now be a good boy and take your brother to his room would you?"  
"Yes Father." The seven year old found the baby heavier than he thought but he gripped his brother determinedly, struggling up the stairs of the Holmes estate with Sherlock gurgling at him in good-nature. Mycroft remembers the weight in his arms and how he could barely carry him, until he managed to to go to the babies room and kick a plastic step over to the cot, stepping up and placing Sherlock in it before spending a good hour hanging over the edge of the cot waggling his hand at Sherlock who managed to grasp it.  
".....I am Mycroft, your big brother, and when you are older we can go fishing and play together and make dens. I think Father will bring in nannies again now to take care of you, but don't worry because we'll have lots of fun....I will look after you Sherlock." He smiled down at his brother and talked merrily to him. 

 

The baby was very boring.  
It pooped and screamed and threw up and demanded attention and food and little else.  
They got a live-in wetnurse to care for it but even though the parents rarely had it they complained about it constantly, mother demanding to know if Mycroft had cried that much and Father saying he didn't know because he was working and, as the boy's mother, she really should remember.  
When Sherlock was about two or three father had to retire.  
He was middle aged when Mycroft was little and so by now was far beyond the minimum retirement age and so he was forced out of office.  
He hated it.  
He was a man of constant work and business meetings with business friends, not a housewife, he was the head of the household. He became resentful; angry.  
Mother was overjoyed and hoped this meant they could get back together but the relationship had long grown cold and the two too far apart.  
Mummy was living in her own comfortable delusions, as always.  
Father spent Sherlock's younger years going out and getting drunk before coming home and finding some-one to pick on.  
Mycroft, would try and tell him to leave Mummy alone and then fathers belt came off, and he lashed his eldest son's back. Rarely was the buckle end used but Mycroft bares scars to this day. 

Sherlock and Mummy became his only concerns, beyond school that is, with his father around. Mummy often bundled her babies away when father came home.  
Mycroft knew father struck her occasionally, but more often than not, they would just scream at each other. Call each other names. 

Mycroft distracted his brother with toys and music up in his room. 

Sherlock was a little troublemaker.  
He was so curious but went about it differently from Mycroft.  
Mycroft, even as a boy, would inquire, ask questions, research a bit himself.  
Sherlock explored and made and destroyed in his inquisitiveness.  
Father did not like it. 

Age five, father siezed his youngest son in a blind rage and Sherlock cried out.  
He can still recall it.  
Mycroft leaps upon his father's arm.  
He is flung away.  
Mother stands weeping her husband's name, begging him to stop.  
Mycroft flings himself back, places himself between the belt and his brother, shoves the boy towards his mother saying "Go! Go!" and mummy scoops up the boy and flees to another part of the house. For the first time real hate blossoms inside Mycroft in a furious and defiant scowl he gives his father.  
He takes the beating without noise beyond shaky breaths.  
He cannot sit nor lie down without pain for two weeks.

Sherlock gets shouted at, cursed at, but every once in a blue moon it is Mycroft who takes the physical abuse and the youngster would have it no other way. 

Often though Mycroft keeps his brother from the parents, shouts at him a lot for getting in trouble and tidies his messes so he is usually left alone. Sherlock calls him a meanie, says he hates him in childish tantrums, but Mycroft knows it's for Sherlock's own good.  
He just wishes he would learn to hide his behavior or be good or something...

Mummy drinks more now. 

 

At Mycroft aged 15 and Sherlock at 8, father has been storming round the house all day, probably having lost on the horses that he has taken to. Gambling and drinking.....Mycroft knows it's getting worse.  
Mummy forces a protesting and active Sherlock to sit on her lap and read with her for the entire time, her watchful eyes seeing her husband circle the house like a predator as she keeps her young close.  
He moves back through the room again, eyeing his wife and son.  
"....why do you look at me like that?!" He demands of the woman.  
"Like what, husband?" She hisses the word and slowly slips Sherlock to the side of her, moving him to just behind her, tipping her chin defiantly.  
"YOU CAUSTIC BITCH-" He starts and Sherlock can't take it.  
"Father! Stop! Please! Father you are just mad you lost a bit of money on the horses, that's all!!! Leave Mummy alone!" He starts forwards, tears in eyes, not understanding why Father can't react like a normal person. 

The room freezes. 

"What did you say?!"  
"NO! HE DIDN'T MEAN IT-" Mummy tries to clutch Sherlock to her put Father grabs the boy's arm and pulls violently on him and Sherlock gives out a half-scream and sobs, scared out of his wits.  
"COME HERE YOU LITTLE UNGRATEFUL URCHIN!!!" 

Mycroft hears the commotion on the way back from the kitchen and drops the tropical juice he is drinking and the glass breaks on the floorboards, eeking orange coloured juice in a puddle but Mycroft's already far away, sprinting, and he sees his father -the man he loves, the man he loathes- towering over his little brother who is crying, leaning back held up now only by his father's unyielding grip. Mummy is holding him round the chest desperately and the cacophony of the screams and curses and terrified sobbing is more than Mycroft can bear. 

Mycroft is no longer a boy. 

Perhaps he never was what society considers a boy. 

He was never given a chance. 

He runs at his father and gives all he's got, kicking and punching and eventually his Father lets go of Sherlock who is snatched and turned over Mummy's shoulder to make sure he doesn't see, Mummy's other hand holding his head still, fingers with chunky rings lurking in the curls of the youngest's silken hair. 

They are cornered but Mycroft places himself firmly between his family and the man he knows as Father.

"Stupid boy!" The man thunders.

That phrase still cuts the eldest Holmes deeply. 

Even when his father held some tender regard for his offspring his displeasure was shown in this phrase. Everything Mycroft did not want to be was in that phrase.  
Looked down upon and disrespected by one he loved for being not clever enough, or not grown up enough. 

"Father; leave." 

"WHAT?!" 

"You have long outstayed your welcome here. Look at us..." 

His wife stared at him with bloodshot eyes from lack of sleep and crying and drink.  
His youngest snivelled in her arms.  
And his eldest was telling him his business. 

"YOU THINK I'LL JUST LEAVE?! I HAVE KEPT THIS FAMILY AFLOAT. I-" 

"I will call the police. We will tell them everything. There will be scandal, divorce, reparations. Or, you leave now Father. And you don't come back unless you ring first to arrange a visit." 

The man was livid, but far from stupid and he stood, seething, shocked. 

At 15 Mycroft guarded the room where his mother sank to her knees, back pressed against the wall, Sherlock touching her face gently as she had always done, cupping their faces and the baby of the family told him Mummy not to cry. 

Their Father flung everything he wanted into suitcases and, as Mycroft found later, some of the silver and some of the jewelry he had given his wife, and stormed from the house. 

 

As far as Sherlock is aware, that is the last the family saw of him. 

 

Mummy had a mental breakdown.  
She drinks wine in the bottles and is hardly ever sober.  
She weeps, she has mood swings. She sometimes blames Mycroft for driving her husband off and Mycroft does not react to these accusations.  
Mycroft spends time with her, massaging her shoulders and feet and listening to her rant on and kisses her cheek and puts a blanket over her when she 'goes to sleep'.

Sherlock starts to get into trouble at school.  
He ends up bloodied and rather than tell him off, or take responsibility, Mummy tells him not to do it again and holds him close. Often she tells Mycroft to not be so harsh on his little brother and scorns Mycroft before taking Sherlock to clean up.  
Funny how she tries to take responsibility when she's drunk and no other time, and even then she's not of any use.  
She goes in to meet the headteacher a few times but after a screaming match, Mycroft always goes to talk to the teachers alone and then leads Sherlock home holding his hand. 

That soon ends. 

As Mycroft ends his A-levels and sets his sights on many a prestigious University, Sherlock starts secondary school a troubled teen and becomes a loner.  
A freak.  
Mummy isn't any good to Sherlock.  
He never did understand that Mummy needed looking after and Mycroft doesn't often go home.  
Sherlock feels abandoned and hated and spirals into a self-destructive depression.  
It doesn't take long for Sherlock to be staying out all night, and Mummy calls Mycroft, desperate. Says she thinks he's using drugs.  
Mycroft tries to confront Sherlock but the boy is wrapped up in so much anger and confused sadness he lashes out at anything that tries to help.  
It reaches a pinnacle where Sherlock was missing days of school. 

Then one day Mycroft gets a call. 

Sherlock has over-dosed on narcotics. 

He raced to the hospital to find Sherlock, pale though he was, deathly white. 

His veins stand out under translucent skin. 

He's hasn't eaten in a few days, presumably buying drugs instead of food. 

His breathing is labored and it reminds Mycroft of watching that bird that was bleeding out after it was hit by a car. Sherlock's bones seem to Mycroft's mind as frail as that of the birds....like any-one could just reach out and snap his gangly little brother. Sherlock did always take after Mummy more than Mycroft did. 

Mycroft knows it's his fault.  
He should have been more careful, should have known something like this was going to happen. Should have long forced Sherlock into an institution, though last time he was home he was convinced that would only make the stubborn boy more determined and worse.

He holds his unconscious brother's hand and tells him he's a silly fool and reads to him every day. When Sherlock wakes, he does not say a word to Mycroft, nor comments on how he holds his hand. He does not complain about the reading for some time until Mycroft starts to read Macbeth and Sherlock demands something actually good and Mycroft smiles. 

He checks Sherlock into rehab. 

He uses the start of his tiny salary as a minor politician to ride on three trains and a taxi trip to the estate or to the rehab centre to check on Sherlock every weekend.  
Some days Sherlock merely exchange quips about their lives in witty banter, and others Sherlock throws tantrums and Mycroft removes hidden drugs from his room or somesuch. 

Once Sherlock is out, he seems more well balanced. 

Mummy takes up writing to keep herself entertained and bring in some money.  
She is moderately successful and becomes a reasonably accomplished writer whose drinking problem is now....manageable.

Not long after, Mycroft is sent to Russia.


End file.
